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Copyright Georgiann Baldino
Journal of a Civil War Nurse
By Georgiann Baldino
July 7, 1863, Tonight I wear a cloak of exhaustion, but today’s events demand a written record. Our party first drew near the field hospital on the evening of July 6th. As we closed the distance, I began to realize a place can have horrors beyond the sufferings of the wounded and desolation of the bereft. Swollen and disfigured bodies stripped the battlefield of glory, the survivors of victory, and stole what slim chances of survival remained for the wounded.
We soon came to a prostrate line of semi-conscious, but still living, soldiers. Shot through the head, surgeons considered them hopeless. I prayed they were indeed too near death to comprehend the surroundings. Groans escaped them. Limbs tossed and twitched. The few surgeons left in charge of the field after the Union Army pursued Lee seemed unequal to the paralyzing task of sorting dead from dying or the dying from those who might be saved.
Hardly a tent was seen. The first hours after battle Earth provided the only cots available. All day long the operating table ran with blood. Attendants filled wagons with amputated limbs, withdrew from sight and returned for the next load. Action of a kind unknown and unheard of goes on here — and only here.
Common to the victims are pallid faces, inarticulate cries and abundant evidence of exhaustion. It swiftly came upon me that nourishment was a pressing need. Here was a way to be of service. The presence of six women on such a field, though scandalous, did not receive attention. No one had time to answer questions or give orders. Wagons of provisions arrived, and I took a loaf of bread and some jelly. Though not a hospital diet, the fellows nearby turned in piteous entreaty. Not a spoon, knife, fork or plate could be had. Never had I possessed a more important task than dividing a too well-baked loaf into bits small enough for weak and dying men to swallow. Bare hands and a stick sufficed. Service was offered on a shingle board. Soldiers greedily swallowed every morsel I was privileged to serve.
The next hours brought wagons containing condensed milk and bottles of whiskey; I mixed milk punch and served it from bottles and tins emptied of contents. Every hour thereafter trains from the North carried further improvements: tents, hospital supplies, doctors, more nurses.
***
July 8th, 1863, This evening I would give anything for water to bathe. I am black as night and dirty as a pig. Back home daily bathing is discouraged and then advised to take place in the morning. Here, where a man might be shot going to the spring for water, washing becomes the greatest matter of life and death.
Today, the fifth one after fighting ended, Union surgeons performed the last amputations. I thank the Almighty the Union calls it a successful battle for the hope the word ‘success’ brings the men. Because of victory fellows say, “What is an arm or a leg to whipping Lee out of Pennsylvania?” I would bear up in better stead if they would not ask me to write to their wives; that service I cannot do without crying.
We have plucky boys in the hospital, but they suffer awfully. Excuse my boldness, generals, but do you know what goes on? If so, how can you permit it? Do not counter by saying the enemy has brought this plague upon the nation, not you. See what I see and then search your conscience again. Bad as five days of surgery were for Union troops, during that time the rebels had no dressings for their wounds and scarcely any food. The rebels were punished more severely by the aftermath of battle, and that no one can deny.
I moved to the 3rd Division 2nd Army Corp where my own Brother Will is attached. I was the first woman to reach them after the fighting. About 500 wounded belong to the Division. There are no words in the English language to express the suffering. I was occupied all day giving a glass of lemonade, some bread and preserves, and tobacco to every wounded man I could — Will, thankfully not among them.
It is very beautiful country here. Under favorable conditions I should think it healthy, but now for five miles around the smell is putrefaction. I do not know how long I will stay here or when I shall go home. It will be according to how long the hospital remains in this location and whether another battle comes. We do not get any news. The soldiers are especially anxious to hear. Things could be quite different here in only a short time.
The Government is very rich and very slow. Women are needed badly, and anyone willing to come should be passed through to the field hospitals, but nothing short of an order from Secretary Stanton or General Halleck now gets them through the lines. It seems an impossible thought, but I am glad to have gone through when I did. I move anywhere through the Corps and receive nothing but the greatest politeness from the lowest private.
Journal of a Civil War Nurse Page 1
